The Interview: Setting the Record Straight
by rdrose
Summary: The one where you, a journalist, get the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of interviewing the great Sherlock Holmes. Reader-insert with fluff & humour.
1. Setting the Record Straight

"This is getting out of hand," John grits whilst brandishing the front page of the paper around the sitting room. ' _The Consulting Detective & His Pining Blogger?' _Sherlock!"

"Not exactly the catchiest headline, in my opinion," Sherlock deadpans.

John grunts in annoyance, then laughs sarcastically. "You've got to do something about this. It's ruining any chance I've got left of picking up women!"

"Oh, don't worry, John – your jumpers do that for you already anyway."

John's jaw tenses and his nostrils flare in pent-up irritation. "I'm serious, Sherlock. Just do one interview, for god's sake. Set the record straight, yeah?"

Sherlock sighs, ignoring the pun for the sake of John's temper. "If it troubles you so much, John, I'll do a bloody interview. But _I_ choose with whom I speak. Understood?"

John considers the proposition for a moment. "I'm amenable to that."

"Ah, John – now you're speaking my language."

* * *

"You'd better not be having me on, Greyson."

"I'm not – I swear I'm not. I'm about as surprised as you are, actually," your superior replies.

"But... but why me?" You're just an insignificant little side-column journalist. At the Times, you report on new scientific and technological developments, sometimes including forensics and pathology.

"Not sure. He asked for you directly. He didn't want anything to do with the entertainment journalists." Of course you know who Sherlock Holmes is – you just never would've expected that he'd know who you were, too. "He said he's decided to do one interview, after we've been hounding him for years." He pauses. "If you do this right, love, you could be looking at a much bigger column for yourself in the near future."

You steel yourself, taking a deep breath, trying to maintain some sort of professional composure. "Right, okay, erm – has he, you know, made any arrangements with you yet?"

"Yes – it'll be Friday, early afternoon, on neutral ground. We agreed on a little hole-in-the-wall café that should work quite nicely."

"Will Dr Watson be there?"

"No, you and Holmes will be alone."

"Did he mention the nature of his agreeing to this interview?"

"Nope. Just said he was looking to discuss recent cases, and would be, quote, 'amenable to answering questions of a more personal nature.' God, that's _mouthwatering._ "

You share a comfortable laugh. "I swear, if you're just taking the piss..."

"Come on – like anyone here is creative enough to come up with a trick as elaborate as this one."

You laugh. "Yeah, you're certainly not wrong on that one."

"Just do your best, love," says Greyson, a sincere smile on his stress-worn face. "You'll do so well." On his way out the room, he pauses to add, "Oh, and you should slip him your number. The worst he can do is say no, eh?"

* * *

You're always at least ten minutes early. You buy two coffees and sit in the corner booth, far from the few other patrons inside. _This is perfect._

It would be impossible to miss the grand entrance of one Sherlock Holmes. He sweeps inside the door wearing his iconic Belstaff, scanning the faces of the other people before landing on yours. His face shifts quickly from cold to soft. _Must be an act._ You can't help but smile wide like an idiot. You rise from your seat as he approaches, saying, "Mr Holmes, it's an honour."

He nods. "Yes, I'm sure," he says rather arrogantly, then holds out his hand to shake. "Introductions are unnecessary, I presume?"

You take his hand and shake it, replying, "Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes. Please, have a seat."

He divests himself of his coat, scarf, and gloves, and you motion to the coffee on his side of the table. He stirs in his preferred two sugar packets before finally directing his attention back to you. You're digging through your briefcase, pulling out the necessary items: notepad, _check,_ pen, _check,_ dictaphone, _check_. "Let's get started, then, shall we?" You press record.

He laughs into his cup of coffee. "I'm sorry, but… really? Handwritten notes and a _dictaphone_? That's a bit, err, _traditional._ Shouldn't you have a laptop?"

You shrug. "I do have one – I just don't like taking notes that way. I try to be present during interviews. Technology makes me feel disconnected." There's a pause. "Which is a bit backwards, I suppose, given my column's usual subject matter." You mentally shake yourself. _Back to the matter at hand._ "So, Mr Holmes – to what do I owe the pleasure? Why decide now to agree to an interview for the first time in your career?"

"I figured it was about time I did."

"Right. Well, I'm certainly glad you did. I've followed your detective work for years now – the way you analyse and piece together evidence is remarkable, astonishing. I know there's no use in asking how you do it, but surely there's something for others to take away from your 'Science of Deduction.'"

"I don't even think about it anymore, really – it just happens. I look at people as if each one of them is a walking crime scene – with evidence and a mystery to solve."

You smile to yourself. "Again, I'll reiterate: _remarkable._ "

"Not necessarily. I've found that most don't enjoy my scrutiny when it's directed toward them – it's not always a great conversation piece."

"So you do it to _everyone_ you see?"

"Yes, but most of the information is deemed irrelevant and is quickly deleted. Need room on my hard drive for more important things." He pauses, holding his breath, until he hesitantly asks, "Would you like me to demonstrate? On you, perhaps?"

"Oh, sure, if you'd like – I mean, I don't want to jumble up your hard drive if I'm too, you know, ' _irrelevant_.'"

He chuckles. "I think I can make some room." He stops, his face growing cold and blank, his eyes scanning back and forth as if he were reading words on a page. The transformation is incredible. "Let's start with your clothing, shall we? Your dress – it speaks less of 'work attire' and more of 'Sunday mass' or 'job interview,' but not overly so. You were worried about seeming too unprofessional. The dress is brand new, inexpensive, bought for today's interview from a casual wear store. How do I know that? One of the hanger loops is just barely visible beneath your neckline, meaning that you haven't worn it in enough to snip those loops off yet. The dress should stay on a hanger just fine, so you wouldn't bother keeping them for their use anyway. You probably forgot to cut them before you put the dress on this morning. Your jacket – it was expensive, but it's quite old. Likely belonged to a relative, possibly your father. The rest of your outfit is rather expensive – your glasses, briefcase, shoes – they're part of your everyday wardrobe, worth investing money into. Understandable. You're a fan of comfort – why else would you wear such an oversized tweed jacket? So you're not used to dressing up for work – most of your interviews, though scarce in number, are conducted via telephone, webcam, or email. I know this because I read your column. Maybe that counts as cheating.

"Moving on. I can smell your coffee – it's black. The coffee rings on the other papers in your notepad are a lighter shade of brown, meaning that you usually take your coffee with milk, or you only drink tea. So I can conclude that, as black coffee is associated with stress, you're more nervous about this interview than you're letting on. Though you'd like to think that you're radiating confidence, your hands shake when you're not paying attention. I'm flattered. A good percent of your notes are scribbled out, written in pen. You're a perfectionist. You refuse to write in pencil, however – because journalism is ink, not lead. Silly reason, in my opinion – but you're a traditionalist and I get that.

"You have a long-haired ginger cat at home that you're allergic to, causing the redness in your eyelids and the dry skin on the sides of your nose. There are just a few ginger hairs on your socks and your scarf, which most pet owners are used to and therefore don't notice. The cat was thrown into your lap when a friend couldn't keep it anymore, likely because they were moving somewhere that wouldn't allow pets. I know that because you wouldn't _intentionally_ adopt a cat with your allergies, which means that you were likely pressured into taking it in.

"You're very dedicated to this interview – as a columnist, you're not unfamiliar with technology. Plus, you have the newest model iPhone. You've no other reason to take notes the way you are unless you're trying to do this 'properly,' likely advice from a superior." He frowns, biting his lip in concentration. "I'll leave it there, before I start delving into your obvious parental abandonment issues. That's usually when someone decides to slap me." You're beyond giddy – you have butterflies. You grin. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Did I get it right?"

"Of course you did. That was brilliant!"

"All of it? There's always something..."

"The jacket was my grandfather's. He was a very tall, slim man, and he paid a lot to have this tailored for him. He gave it to me when he got fat – didn't want such a thing to go to waste." You take a sip of your coffee, hiding your mouth behind the brim to conceal your nerves.

"Oh, stop being stupid and add some bloody milk to your coffee. You look like you're being made to drink hard liquor."

You laugh, conceding – that really was a ridiculous idea in the first place. "Hey – I happen to _enjoy_ hard liquor."

"Is that so?"

"I can prove it to you, and by the time I'm pissed, you can talk some more about my supposed 'parental abandonment issues.'"

 _Oh my god, am I... flirting? With Sherlock Holmes?_

He chuckles, "Sounds like an enjoyable evening."

You clear your throat, course-correcting your digression. "Right, so, let's talk some more about your recent cases, and the skills you use to –"

"Wait, hang on – aren't you supposed to ask me some inane dribble about my personal life, hoping I make some sort of huge admission? I wasn't expecting this interview to be of much actual substance."

You pause, looking up from your notes and considering this for a moment. You fold your hands on the table. "Then why, pray tell, would you want to be interviewed by _me_?"

He sighs. "I... I must confess something. Off the record."

You grin. "Not a chance."

He shrugs before continuing. "I promised John that I'd agree to one interview, just to set the record straight about where he and I stand as far as 'relationships' go. It's absolutely platonic. And John is tired of people thinking that we're, you know, _together_ – because apparently it's a great hindrance to his attempts at a sex life." You laugh openly, and Sherlock soon joins in. "Make that the headline: _Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson: Consulting Detective and London's Most Eligible Bachelor, Respectively."_

"That's a bit lengthy. I'll need something a bit more succinct," you say sarcastically.

"Okay, how about this: _Surprise: They're Not Gay."_

You both giggle, struggling to breathe. "Oh god, now _that's_ bloody perfect."

* * *

"Well, I think I have enough to go on here. It's been an absolute pleasure, Mr Holmes."

When you hold your hand out for him to shake, he takes it, but instead scrawls his phone number on the back of it in pen. "Don't hesitate to text me if you have any other questions. For the article, I mean." You smirk at him, pulling your hand back as he finishes writing. _Doesn't he have business cards for that sort of thing?_ "Or if you ever want to go for that drink."

You bite your lip. "I certainly will. For the article, of course," you add jokingly.

"Or, you know – for other reasons." You're slightly taken aback by his forwardness, which he picks up on. "You're clever. And contrary to what my ego may suggest, I get bored being the only clever one around sometimes." He winks at you and gathers his things, waiting for you to leave the café.

Once on the pavement, the two of you have to go in separate directions. "Goodbye, Mr Holmes," you call, and he smiles back.

"I look forward to hearing from you."

* * *

You decide to wait until after the article is published before reaching out to Sherlock. It comes out on a Friday morning, and that evening, you chance a text: _"So, how about that drink, Mr Holmes? I'd love to hear your thoughts on the article."_ You don't bother signing your name.

His reply comes fifteen minutes later. _"We could meet at the pub next door to the café. Ed & Bernie's. Tomorrow, say, 8:00? –SH"_

You grin to yourself and type out your reply, waiting an extra fifteen minutes to hit send because you want to seem aloof. _"I'll be there."_

* * *

 **A/N:** Is is glaringly obvious that I'm American? This will probably have at least two chapters; I have it all mostly written, but whether I post it or not depends on the response I get. Any feedback is greatly appreciated!


	2. Ed & Bernie's

Needless to say, you're ten minutes early. It's a bit sad, really – you sitting here at the bar table alone, whiskey in hand. You pull your mobile out of your clutch to check the time – Sherlock is ten minutes late. In the twenty minutes you spend alone, waiting, you agonize over particular details – which gives you enough time to work up a decent amount of self-doubt and insecurity. _Ugh. And I felt so confident when I walked in the door._

You look sexy tonight – there's no doubting that. You're wearing a midi bodycon dress, the bodice adorned with gunmetal silver sequins. When you picked out your outfit, complete with black Mary Jane _fuck-me_ pumps, you smirked to yourself, recalling your conversation with Holmes at the café. _I'll show you Sunday mass_. You went all-out for tonight: your lipstick is the perfect shade of red, and your stockings even have the seams running down the backs. Your eye-shadow is a light shimmery colour, meant to highlight your dramatic black winged eye-liner. _Damn,_ you thought, examining your handiwork before you left for your date. _I should wear this sort of make-up more often. I sure do clean up nice._

When Sherlock enters the pub, panting, your eyes meet across the room. It's all a bit cheesy, honestly. At the door, he visibly steels himself, ruffling his hair as he stumbles then saunters over to you. You notice that he's sweating rather profusely. As he approaches, you joke, "Did you _run_ here?"

He clears his throat, glancing around the room awkwardly. "Well, yes." You look at him, speechless, waiting for the punchline. "John and I were abducted this morning and were held hostage by two Nigerian men in a flat above a hair salon just eight streets away. It took a while, but I got a hand free and phoned Scotland Yard for assistance. They showed up, took down the men, undid our bindings – and voilà, twenty—" he trails off, checking his watch, "—six minutes later: here I am."

You stare at him, astonished, and the only sound between you is his panting. You try to respond several times, and eventually, you sputter, "You could have just, you know, _rescheduled._ "

He huffs a laugh. "And why on _earth_ would I want to do that?" He removes his coat, draping it over the back of his barstool before rolling up his sleeves. As he takes his seat, he changes the subject. "You've changed your hair."

All of a sudden, you're reminded of how painfully self-conscious you were before he arrived. For this date, you went to the trouble of actually doing your hair, for once; the added soft, subtle, gentle waves and the slight change of part feel like a complete makeover to you. "Erm, yeah. Just, you know... trying something new."

"Oh." He pauses. "I – I like it?" He grimaces as you blush.

"Please – don't strain yourself on my account," you jest, recognizing his discomfort.

"Forgive me: I'm not exactly privy to the etiquette of compliments. I usually just point things out about a person and they either take it well or they hit me." You laugh, realizing the gravity of his attempt to be nice, however butchered it may have come out. "I usually only compliment someone on purpose if I need something from them." He pauses. "Christ, I'm—I'm saying a lot. I think there might be traces of that tranquiliser I was hit with earlier still lingering in my system."

You giggle, until you realize that he's serious. "If it helps at all, I have to stop myself a lot from doing the very same thing, just inside my head. If I don't cut the thoughts short, they'll—"

"—get away from you, and by the time you catch up to them, you can't remember where you started?" he interjects, finishing your sentence for you. You're a bit speechless. _Again._ "Yes, well, me too. I'm just usually better at reeling them in and not saying them out loud."

"Well if there _are_ still traces of that tranquiliser in your system – I mean, I wouldn't want to, you know, _take advantage_."

"Nonsense," he says. He leans in close and mutters in a low tone, "So long as we're off the record, I don't really give a damn."

"Then I suppose it's time for some of that hard liquor we spoke about at the café."

* * *

Several drinks later, you find yourself tipsy, chatting up a sincerely drunk Sherlock Holmes.

 _God, he's beautiful. Even when he's a pissed, bumbling mess, he's a work of art._

"Oh, stop—" he makes a floppy waving gesture with the hand not currently wrapped around his glass. "—doing that. You're putting me off."

You're pulled from your reverie. "Doing what, pray tell?"

"Staring at me—" he waves again, "—like that. That thing you're doing. It's unsettling. Google me – I'm much better-looking online."

"I beg to differ," you say, propping your chin up on your hand, your elbow resting on the hard surface of the bar table in front of you. His expression begs a silent, _'go on.'_ "Your eyes are…they're pretty."

You both erupt with laughter. _"Pretty?_ That's all I get – _pretty_?"

You shove him playfully. "I'm trying to keep my cool here, Holmes. Wouldn't do to swoon after the first few drinks, now, would it?"

"And why not?"

"You know, playing hard-to-get – that sort of inane drivel," you say with a noncommittal shrug.

"Oh, that's such _bollocks._ Stupid and you know it. I'm surprised at you," he frowns, his mock-disappointed face egging you on.

"It's bloody _biology!_ It's—" But he cuts you off before you have the chance to go off on a tangent about mating rituals and pheromones and biological imperatives – though you're sure he would've enjoyed it immensely.

"I've got it! What if," he says, stopping to gasp and smack the surface in front of him in a cinematic _'eureka!'_ moment, "we all just, you know – tell each other exactly what we're thinking." You desperately want to believe that he's being facetious here. "Wouldn't life be so much easier? Maybe if everyone else is doing it, I won't get a busted lip or bloodied nose at least once a week."

You stare at him in all of his brilliant, childlike glory and pray to no one in particular that he wants to spend more time with you. Hanging out with Sherlock Holmes is like being with a toddler, an 8 year-old, a broody teenager, and a spiteful middle-aged man all at once. And no part of you considers this a burden.

You humour him. _Bring it on._ "Alright then, Holmes. You first. No holding back," you say, grinning madly as you take a sip from your rapidly-dwindling drink. At the last second, you add, "Oh, and I want to hear opinions, not observations."

He frowns sincerely, brow furrowed, and stays silent for a while. "I'm… I'm not entirely certain how to do that, to be perfectly honest." You give him a look that says, _'yeah, right.'_ "No, really. As any of my acquaintances would be quick to say, I'm not very good at this whole conversation lark."

"But you do have opinions on things – you just might not realize that you do. Just say whatever pops into your head."

"Alright, but if I say something that upsets you, can you promise not to hit me?"

You smirk. "Not a chance."

He rolls his eyes, then smiles, realizing that he doesn't really have anything cruel to say to you. _But that doesn't inherently mean that what I say won't upset her._ He sighs. " _Fine._ Okay, so—" he stops himself mid-thought. "Sorry, that would've been a deduction. Hmm."

He's obviously mentally scrambling, concentrating very hard on trying to think of something – so you throw him a bone. "How about I go first, yeah?" His look of relief is comically dramatic. "Start small. I prefer cold weather to warm weather." He blinks, dumbfounded at how blatantly simple that answer was and slightly irritated that he didn't think of it first. "Your turn."

"Oh, okay, err—" He thinks for a moment. "I think patterned drapery is atrocious."

You can't help but laugh at him, and he looks very unamused. "Alright, it's a start." _Maybe I can manipulate this conversation to coax more information out of him. I'm a journalist, damn it – it's my job! Though, in my defence, I'm not usually this tipsy at work…_ "I despise daytime television."

"I enjoy driving, but only outside of the city."

"My preferred drink is a whiskey coke."

"I usually prefer a Manhattan."

"Nope, uh-uh," you say, shaking your head. "You can't just steal my idea. Come on, let's have another."

He groans and rolls his eyes. "Okay. I dislike small talk."

" _Never would've guessed_ ," you joke, ignoring his unamused look and continuing the game. "I love playing video games." He winces a bit at that. "Don't you dare judge me, sir."

"I wasn't," he says, holding his hands up in mock-surrender, though he most _certainly_ was. "I like to dance."

"I really dislike Indian food."

"I am indifferent to the rain." He pauses. "That's an opinion, right? Does a lack thereof count?"

"Sure," you say, smiling inwardly as you look down at the almost-empty glass you are swirling in your hand. _Be bold._ You glance around, refusing to meet his gaze. You clear your throat, and in a low voice, you say, "I think a smartly-dressed man is a huge turn-on."

He looks briefly taken aback, raising an eyebrow at you, but plays along nonetheless. "Disregarding appearance, I believe my biggest turn-ons are wit and intricate use of language." _That's actually rather encouraging._

You can't really find it in yourself to mind that he steals your idea this time. In fact, it's _exactly_ what you were hoping he'd do. It just solidifies the fact that he's not really playing anymore. "I concur. I'm attracted to tall men who smell nice and who have deep, sexy voices."

You haven't actually been close enough to _smell_ him yet, but you can just tell he'll smell like pipe tobacco and expensive aftershave and single malt scotch whiskey and crisp, freshly-pressed shirts and book shelves and hair product and earl grey tea and maybe a lingering hint of formaldehyde. Just by looking at him, by speaking with him, and by _seeing_ him, you know.

He squints before his expression changes entirely into something seemingly detached and aloof. You recognize the face he makes now as the one he uses when going into deduction mode – but this time, it feels like the outcome will be different. _Hook, line, and sinker._

He leans in closer to you, then in the sexiest, most gravelly tone you've ever heard, he says, "I am perplexed by the fact that you are so very clever and, dare I say, _lovely_ , yet your level of confidence is so low that I'm not sure you even want to be pursued. Maybe you playing 'hard-to-get,' as you say, is working to your advantage, because I find you simply radiant – when I am never one to think of anything 'simply.' But worse still, I cannot tell whether I want to have long conversations with you, take you on a proper date, or push you up against a wall and take you apart. Do any of these options sound particularly amenable to you?"

 _Oh, hell._

* * *

And now here you are, merely along for the ride as Sherlock Bloody Holmes drags you by the hand toward the side entrance of the pub, determination set on his face. Before, you were drunk on whiskey and butterflies – but this, _this_ is a whole different kind of intoxication. How else does one describe the sobering, yet equally inebriating effect of arousal and sexual tension?

 _"_ _Do any of these options sound particularly amenable to you?"_ You replay the series of events that led up to this very moment in your head, ever the scientist in your play-by-play analysis.

* * *

Your very first thought is, _'Oh, hell.'_

You experience a feeling that you would usually associate with panic – that tightening right at the bottom of your sternum, in the space between your lungs. Your breathing stutters – along with your heart – and quickly grows shallow, even though every voice inside of you screams to take a deep, satisfying breath.

Later, you wonder if you hold your breath because you're subconsciously afraid that breathing too hard might knock over the carefully-constructed house of cards that lay in front of your eyes – and you would so very much like to keep it standing long enough to take a good photograph. Or maybe, you're just afraid that, over the sound of your breathing and the blood rushing to your head, you'll miss something incredibly important within a moment you'll want to remember later.

The cut-off oxygen flow quickly goes to your head, making it swim dangerously as your vision blacks out around the edges. _'To be fair, though, that could be from the whiskey,'_ your brain reasons. _'Or the mydriasis, caused by the chemistry between—'_ you halt your train of thought abruptly. ' _No, stop. Focus. Focus, or you'll miss it.'_

This symphony of welcome physical discomfort occurs within the span of four or five interminable seconds before you finally manage to gather your wits and speak. "I, um—" you fumble, quickly trying to regain your footing and play along with the ruse. "All of them sound like rather spectacular ideas, but, erm…" you pause, gathering your courage. A dejected look crosses the detective's face. _He likes you, you moron – he's laid it all out plainly in front of you, now reciprocate before the moment gets awkward and you scare him off!_ "But why don't we start with the latter option and make our way backwards, hmm?"

His immediate response is slight – imperceptible to the unwitting eye: he tilts his chin up a few degrees, exhales slowly ( _so, one might reasonably conclude that he, too, was holding his breath; WHICH MEANS THAT HE—_ ), and the corner of his mouth twitches upward just the tiniest bit, then returns to its previous position.

"Splendid."

* * *

As soon as you make it out of the side exit door – in the currently vacant alleyway where patrons and employees go for a smoke break – you find yourself backed into a cool brick wall, Holmes' body pressed against yours. He plants one hand on the wall behind you, the other placed gently, reverently on your cheek, and he looks at you with a mixture of emotions: there's a fire in his eyes, mirrored in his breathing, yet at the same time, he looks at you like he cannot believe that he has you here, pressed against him in this moment – like his mind has just caught up with his body and he's finally processing the implications of his actions. There's a hesitance in his eyes that wasn't there before, in the pub. _Oh, we'll be having none of that, thank you very much._ Before he can second-guess this impulsive endeavour, you take his face in your hands and pull him into a deep, passionate kiss, sloppy in that he wasn't expecting it. But that does the trick, recapturing his immediate attention, and he melts into your embrace, deepening the kiss with a quiet moan.

But of course, it's not so easy to draw Sherlock Holmes out of his own head. After the immediate shock of your kiss subsides, doubt clouds his thoughts once again. It's written plainly on his face.

"I'm not… You must know—I don't do this very often," he begins, then corrects himself, "actually, I _never_ do this." You cast your eyes downward, awaiting his imminent rejection. He senses the dejection in your features, in response to which he tilts your chin up to force eye contact. "In all honesty, I just don't want to disappoint you."

You pause, slightly annoyed by his lapse of self-consciousness. "Then _don't._ " He's puzzled by your response. "You know the best way to disappoint me? By backing away now because of your own self-doubt." His frown deepens as he searches his brain for a rebuttal. "Alright, are we done with this bit now? I'd very much like to get back to the snogging, if you don't mind." You lean up to mutter in his ear, "Then, who knows? Maybe I'll bring you home and let you take me apart like you promised."


End file.
